-----“Dammit!” Garrison says looking with disbelief at his demolished weapon, “. . . my axe!”
-----Whisper crouched down by one of the corpses, and calmly wiped clean both the unusual dirk and his Elven shortsword on the tabard before securing them. Then he took another calm look around before snapping his fingers. He tugged at the armour of the dead Hobgoblin in front of him, and then made a sweeping gesture to encompass the armsmen. After a moment’s consideration, he nodded at Sol and Raven and indicated the Hobgoblin pointed out by Raven.
-----Rising gracefully out of his crouch, Whisper then set about salvaging what arrows he could before setting about the looting process himself.
-----With luck, this might be turned to their advantage, after all. If they could draw off a sizeable portion of humanoids on a goose chase... He stopped looting, and eyed the severed head and one of the spears the patrol had used.
-----Sol looks mournfully at what remains of Garrison's weapon as he efficiently cleans his sword. "I don't suppose ye know how t'handle a blade o' some sort, do ye?" He asks the burly huntsman. Satisfied that the Lathanian blade is not longer tarnished, he resheathes the blade and makes his way over to the wounded hobgoblin.
-----“I can’t believe my own weapon broke on me,” Garrison said, before replying to Sol, “I guess I’ll have to settle for one now . . . or one of these spears.” The woodsman picks up one of the polearms that the enemy was carrying.
-----Scowling darkly at the fallen creature, he grates out a threat, "Try'n escape, call out, or fail t'answer our questions an' ye'll earn your death. An' he'll be deciding how slow an' painful it'll be." Sol clarifies by pointing a crooked finger at the imposing form that is Raven. "If ye answer our questions, ye won't have t'worry about him one bit." Promises the Gorian, barely keeping contempt from his tone.
-----The Hobgoblin soldier eyed Sol and Raven with a defiant stare. Its lips curled into a snarl, but it otherwise remain quiet as if waiting to hear what the humans had to say.
-----Pil watched the badly wounded humanoid and kept his sword clenched in his hand. Lovan stirred around the corpses momentarily and then casts his eyes skyward watching the clouds. Dilton emerged from the brush cautiously keeping his own weapon ready.
-----Whisper straightened out from where he was cutting through the straps of a Hobgoblin’s ruined armour, and used his foot to flip a spear into his hand. Then he smoothly strode over to the severed head, and lifted it by its hair. Turning it this way and that, Whisper nodded and proceeded to ram the spear butt into the ground. Once so secured, the Wood Elf stuck the head onto the spear point.
-----The grim task done, Whisper calmly returned to his looting and recovery. The possibility of drawing off a chunk of the occupying horde would require the laying of a false trail... but that could wait until after they had played the part of bandits.
-----The thickets to the north rustle as Jeilin emerges. She takes a moment to brush bits of twig and leaves off herself, while watching Whisper perform his task with a pained, but also interested, on her face. The priestess then turns to Sol and asks aside, "Perhaps this hobgoblin can tell us more about those priests of Helator? Any plans aside from holding the village?"
-----Sol shifted his weight slightly, bending down tugging on a conspicuous hilt protruding from the top of his left boot. The dagger slid out without much trouble, and as the warrior nodded at the priestess' queries, Sol made a show of testing the blade's point and edge. "Yes, let's see if ye can do more than just stay quiet when told. Answer th' kind lady's questions, an' also let us know how many of yer kind, an' how many goblins there are in town. If ye seem keen, we'll move on t'th' part where ye live t'th' next question..."
-----A sneer comes across the hobgoblin’s face. “Stupid humans!” he spats as he looks around. “This small troop all you got?”
-----He then looks at Sol and Jeilin and laughs, “Over two hundred o’ us in th’ town n’ bout that many orcs down by the river. What’re yer hopin’ t’do? Save th’ prisoners? Steal th’ gold? Ya gots nothin’!”
-----Any pretense of Sol being a calm questioner disappears at the hobgoblin's cocky reply. In a flash, the armoured warrior is bent over the wounded humanoid, his left hand reaching to choke the creature, and the point of the dagger held in his right pressed firmly against the underside of its jaw. His eyes full of blatant hate, Sol manages to growl out to the captive, "Yer speculation wasn't asked for and isn't wanted. Stick t'answers or I start chopping bits of ye... Now tell us about th' priests o' hate, an' tell me who leads yer forces in this town. Name, description an' location." The Gorian's grip on the hobgoblin's throat relaxes enough for the creature to speak if it chooses.